


Gay Droids in Space

by Italionion



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Don't ask me why, Gay droids, It's like their model name, It's really weird to sexualize a droid, Love story between two battle droids, Star-crossed lovers in space, all droids are named Roger, another goal is to be weird, but here we go, final goal is a dramatic death at the end, goal is to be sweet, it will get spicy, just warning you for the later chapters, one of the droids is southern, opening is only an introduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 01:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11475849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Italionion/pseuds/Italionion
Summary: You loved the Clone Wars giving you more depth with the clones struggle, well here is the other half of the story. An enchanting tale detailing the hardships of the droid Separatist army, and focusing in on two Roger Unit Battle Droids that are just trying to be... gay droids in space.





	Gay Droids in Space

Blaster shots thundered through the wind, shouts flooded the atmosphere, and death lurked in every breath. Roger cocked his gun as he stationed his feet- staggered, and shoulder width apart. Take an aim, take a breath, and shoot. The easiness of the words did not match such an action. Roger eyed a clanker streaked in yellow. One…. two…. and a shot roared, but it wasn’t from Roger- it was for him. Roger peered down at his blood streaked armor accented with the new blaster burn squarely located on his lower left abdomen. He gasped, but no amount of crisp air could save Roger now. He collapsed to his knees, his standard rifle fleeting from his now shaky grasp. Roger’s eyelids grew heavier as he looked out at the war-torn world that he would be leaving. Then one blink, and darkness all around.  
A small beeping echoed about, alerting Roger of his full battery and pending duties on his programmed checklist. He pressed the eject button, releasing him from the charging capsule secured in the barracks wall, and began to unfold his metallic limbs. Was that a dream? Roger wondered as he stretched out his taut arms with a few metal toe touches. Droids don’t have dreams, especially not as if they were the weak and feeble creations of life. Although, life, or programmed existence, is unpredictable; or just a series of calculated possibilities. Well, no time to dawdle on the mysteries of existence. There was work to do, droids to see, and Republic scum to kill. Doubts have no place in the computerized chip labeled a battle droid’s mind.  
Roger clasped his tan digits around his E-5 blaster rifle, locked his bicep and forearm parts in the typical 90-degree angle, and started a forward march to his designated sector. The passageways gave off a green radiance that Roger would not consider flattering, and don’t get him started on the smell. Disregarding the basic fact of him not having nostrils, Roger was pretty set in his ways when they pertained to the putrid scent that must have lurked through these halls. The Nyctophilia was no beauty of a ship. It lacked in all areas. The brig’s laser doors didn’t always hold, the cargo bay didn’t have a proper locking system for all the supplies, and the trash compactor seemed to always have a few slippery friends sneaking around. How were there lifeforms on a mostly droid-run ship? No one truly knew, but rumors did circulate. Droids love to talk, or voluntarily utter what one lifeform once synthesized into their understanding of the world and it’s monotone communications in an attempt at expression.  
The only other lifeform that inhabited this glued-together-with-feces-contraption-the-Separatists-called-a-ship was Commander Asajj Ventress, and one could consider her more slimy and slippery than the trash monsters. At least she wasn’t the notorious General Grevious. Roger had a buddy once who got that dreaded notice. He was shipped off to the General’s ship- never heard from again. Grevious had a reputation for not being able to hold on to vessels, and that doesn’t cover the countless men lost to outbursts of his vile “charm.” Luckily, death wasn’t common on Commander Ventress’ ship. She was more accustomed to the beauty of retreat, and it takes a certain type of leader to master the art of a coward. But who was Roger to judge. He was a bucket of bolts, who carried a blaster to constitute an army of bots, and at this moment he was on his way to the job of a lifetime- a hanger hand. He had the luxury of working right there by the action: unloading, reloading, and pumping oil. What more could a droid desire? He was working, he was functional, and he was in space.  
Roger rounded the corner to a haven of ecstasy and hectic(sy) . The hanger hung in a timeless frenzied perfection. Ships zipped in and out in a timed precision, and all droids, moving at either a leisurely stride to an animated glide, worked in unison to capture the essence of rushing ocean. He marched up to his commander, dropped his blaster, and raised his other prong to a standard salute.  
“Calm down before your knackers get so high they knock you out.”  
“Sir? Roger Unit 323-“  
“Can it, you bucket of bolts. I know your name.” after a considerable stutter and a slur of what sounded like a drunken man, he continued “It’s Roger right? Yess. You’re the ‘It’s just Roger”, guy. I swear you are as creative as a deer in headlights.”  
“Sir? What’s a deer? I’ve scanned my standard data base and I can’t seem to pull up-”  
“How am I supposed to know,” the Commander spat out, and with that he drew in a salivated inhalation, grumbled in the deepness of his throat, and produced an exaggerated expression of spittle. Unfortunately, no liquid actually preceded the overemphasized sound mainly due the lack of saliva producing glands in OOM Commander Battle Droid.  
Amid this conversation, a Sheathipede-class transport shuttle entered the hanger’s floor. It’s two engines blared and burned until the pilot lowered and extinguished the enlarged flames in the slot right next to Roger and the Commander. The shuttle was highlighted with sharp red lines that extended from a single circular design of a sniper’s zoom, and to Roger’s surprise there was no scantily posed BD-3000 luxury droid. Roger, as a basic hanger hand, was overcome with awe as the retracting door lowered, and a group of battle droids exited in what seemed to be a planned procession. They were bruised and battered, one droid leaning on another for support, yet another with fizzling wires and shorted circuits, and, even worse, a few were dragged out as nothing more but mere scraps. Yet, somehow in the back, trailing all the broken circuits, was a sniper Roger Unit with hardly any noticeable irritation on his tan-tinted shell. He strutted down the ramp in complete solitude; a stark opposite to the droids that preceded him. His sniper was slung over his right shoulder, and his head was agonizingly bowed. Then, at the bottom of the ramp, the sniper Roger Unit looked up at the bustling hanger that now encompassed him, a glance around landed his weary depth and location perceptors on an old friend. His step got a little more pep as he advanced to the Commander supervising the hangar floor that stood with a sparkling new Roger Unit.  
“Houston, my old module. You can’t tell me they still have a tactical genius like you on deck duty?”  
“Ha! Tactical genius?!” The Commander chuckled with a deep “southern accent” as he calls it. “I haven’t been in the Clone Wars fire since a rooster laid an egg.”  
“Sir?” the radiant and new Roger Unit cut in, “I don’t know of any creature or species with the identification of-”  
“Can it.” Houston grumbled.  
“Hey. Be nice to the new model. I heard they can kill and repair you, and of course, kill you again.” The sniper Roger Unit held nothing but pure bliss in his tone which didn’t match the grieving unit he was when he exited the shuttle. He then pivoted to Roger with his head slightly coaxed upward to indicate his intrigue with the never-before-seen droid. “Raj,” he offered as he extended his arm.  
“Roger Unit 323’n-the-last-number’s-an-8.” Roger, not noticing the common sign of greeting that most lifeforms engaged in, failed to engage in the rigid handshake.  
“That’s quite a name, I hope you can provide me an escape from that tongue twister. I’d hate to have to install such a primitive humanoid organ.” Raj snickered at his own quip, and then after a longer than necessary pause, Roger Unit 323’n-the-last-number’s-an-8 shook his head in a “negatory” motion, halted, and offered:  
“I do go by just Roger when I want to shake it up.”  
“Hmm.” Raj continued with some hesitation, “I suppose we all do at one point or another. Well, what is a stand-up mod like you doing as a hangar hand?”  
Before Roger could answer, Commander Houston’s familiar drawl interjected, “Well you see, the boy’s more out of his circuits than a damn Yankee is going this far past the Missi’sip.” Rog circulated his neck to stare the Commander straight into the vision receptors as Roger hunted his databases for a “Missy sip.”  
“In standard, please.” Roger requested with ever increasing intrigue.  
“His wires are frayed.”  
“Ha. By who’s standards.”  
“The programmer’s, of course.”  
“Like anyone here actually goes by those mortal’s standards.”  
“Well it’s enough to get him stuck as a hangar hand. This unit is going nowhere just like molasses in the winter.” An uncomfortable silence surrounded the three droids. Two of them frantically searched all databases to no avail, and one of them stood sure in what he said. It was a normal routine when interacting with Commander Houston. Before Roger could bring up his doubts of the statement’s accuracy with his superior, Raj sputtered out:  
“Well, l I know of no soldier without a few hiccups. No reason he shouldn’t serve; my lineup is going to need a few new circuits after this hit. I could a new and improved model like…. Roger.”  
“My, there must be a tree stump in Louisiana with higher calibrated IQ than you. He’s yours if you can get the clearance.” The Commander whistled and inhaled before once more attempting to expectorate, which, at that point, what seemed to simply be for show.  
“Nice doing business with you, old model. Oh, and short circuit anything with this hard hangar duty, Houston.” With that, Raj chuckled, and motioned for Roger to follow.  
“Are you actually taking me off this ship?” Roger inquired of what seemed to be his new Commander.  
“Of course, and if you’re lucky enough, you’ll get to return.”  
Roger missed a step, and halted at such a blunt remark. I could die. He realized to himself as he started to return to the rudimentary movements required to proceed in the desired direction. No, no, droids don’t die. They short circuit. They power down. They stop processing. Then they are recycled and used to make a better unit in the Confederacy’s army. That is not death. Death implies having once been alive and consisting of organic material; I lack experience in either of those departments.  
“Sir?” Roger started to inquire once more, “Where would I be going if I happened to be assigned off of this ship?”  
Raj now paused. They had almost navigated the entire span of the hanger, and were close enough to touch the blue shield. Instead of turning into the hallway directly to his left, Raj took a few more steps, perked up and leaned forward in what would be titled a “tippy-toed” function. He placed one of his hands on Roger’s shoulder, and reached out his other towards the protective barrier. His sturdy finger tips, now risen above their heads, hung in a perfect balance that indicated space and abandoned the bustle of the hanger. His three prongs, spread out of their typical grasp- almost trying to cradle the expansive and sweet serenity of the galaxy. Then in a whisper that enhanced the essence of complete tranquility, but provided enough mystery to establish another chapter, Raj replied,  
“Out. Into space.”

**Author's Note:**

> I promise to add spice in a later chapter.


End file.
